


Unbalanced Scales

by DragonaireAbsolvare



Series: Libra- The scales [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst, Azkaban, Death, Emotional Hurt, Freedom, M/M, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Organized Crime, Politician Harry Potter, Politician Tom Riddle, Prisoner Harry Potter, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), tomarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonaireAbsolvare/pseuds/DragonaireAbsolvare
Summary: Twenty-five years of Azkaban, and its aftermath. Or, being on the upper end of an unbalanced scale.(Sequel to Scales of Ambition, but can be read standalone.)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Libra- The scales [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018423
Comments: 18
Kudos: 49





	1. The Prisoner

Twenty-five years.

Twenty-five years of bitter cold gnawing on every fibre of his body, of fierce gales that tasted of salt and smelt of dirty brine and rattled his bones. Of bleak, grey light filtering through the thick storm-clouds and then through inch-wide ventilation holes, casting dull spots on the damp, mouldy floor.

The stench of filth, rot and despair.

The numbness that lingered in his mind and body within the first few months. A blankness that accompanied every chill passing through.

At times, the numbness was so overwhelming that the wretched cries of a newcomer felt like music in his ears. The sound of metal clanging as the woman next-door cracked her skull on the iron bars, of blood dripping onto the stone floor in quiet little plops, of its pungent, sticky-sweet smell and the way his dried, crusted tongue stuck out in desperation for a taste of anything but brine...

The smell of human waste as he lost control of his muscles felt grounding- that he was not dead, not comatose, that he still had his mind and his awareness.

Sometimes, though, he wished that losing his mind would have been a better option.

He’d hear the sounds of his companions in other cells begging- sometimes to the guards who rarely came by- and more often, to the Dementors that drifted through the cells, unfettered by solid objects like walls and bars, their rattling breaths drinking in the few precious memories that the inmates had.

People begged for a kiss. Some of them hadn’t had physical contact in years. Some were used for the guards’ pleasure while others were beaten to within an inch of their life. But even that was welcome, compared to the sheer misery of having nothing but the Dementors for company.

Once a prisoner was thrown in, the bars were never opened until their term was over. Or until a corpse needed to be taken out. Mass Cleaning Charms were cast in the cells once a day, removing the filth off the floor and grime off their bodies. Until then, they had to wallow in the inhumane conditions, day after day, nothing but mouldy walls and rusting chains around them.

The prison floors were allotted according to the severity of offences and length of term. The lower levels were guarded mostly by Aurors and the inmates were replaced every few months.

The highest three floors were rarely ever attended to- and its occupants long-term. Some of the cells hadn’t been opened in half a century, its occupants wasting, withering sacks of ashen skin laid loosely over arthritic bones. There, the air was rank and thin, nothing but low-lying clouds and the endless roar of the tempesting seas around and living beings so few- the inmates had stopped living- in every sense of the word but physical- and at the very top, at the centre of the triangular building was the colony of Dementors.

Here lived the worst offenders- the scum of the Wizarding world, locked away for good, never to see the light of day ever again.

Convicted dark wizards, Grindelwald supporters- these feeble and wasted witches and wizards hardly matched up to their vile reputations. Some were manic and had to be restrained to the wall by chains, collars and straitjackets. Some sat in the corner of their cramped, tiny cells with haunted faces and gnarled, trembling fingers. Some howled with torn throats, their voices long broken.

These were the oldest inmates. Most others, weaker of mind and health never made it past the first ten years of their sentence.

The sound of heels clicking drew the attention of all prisoners who possessed some semblance of awareness. It was a guard and two Aurors dressed in Ministry robes, followed by a harried-looking official, the lines and eye-bags of his fifteen-hour job stressed into his otherwise young face.

“Right here.” The guard said, sounding out of breath, while the two Aurors wrinkled their noses at the stench.

“Merlin, I hate this place.” One remarked to his companion, warily eyeing a passing Dementor. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The three newcomers peered into the cell, inside which sat an elderly man peering at the vent-hole on the top of the wall. He made no motion to acknowledge them- and knowing the condition of inmates on the top floor, there was every chance the man had lost all mental facilities.

“Potter, you have a visitor.” The guard said, tapping the bars with his wand. He stepped back when they vanished, and shot a Stinging Hex at the old man.

No response.

“He’s not dead, is he?” The official asked in a jittery treble.

“Nah, the records update themselves when an inmate dies.” The guard grimaced and cast a Cleaning Charm over the cell and its occupant before stepping in. “Potter.” He reached out and grabbed the man’s chains, and shook it.

The only sign of life was the small, steady movements of his chest. Finally, the inmate opened his eyes and regarded the guard intently. Taking this as a sign of acknowledgement, the official stepped up and began reading off a roll of parchment, at the end of which one of the Aurors tapped the old man gruffly on the shoulders with his wand.

The chains clicked open and fell down onto the stone with clangor, the sound echoing down the windowless corridors and rousing the more active of prisoners. The howling started once more, and the other Auror impatiently shot multiple Silencing spells at the manic inmates.

The first Auror slipped on a set of special gauntlet shackles into the prisoner’s hands- specially built with magic-repressing stones and runes that mirrored the ones on his chains. This particular wizard was notoriously powerful, and it was an open secret that he did not need a wand to cast magic. These were imported from Nurmengard, the previous user being the late Dark Lord- after all, it was not every day that the Ministry needed such restraints.

A Levitation Charm had to be cast to get the unresponsive prisoner down to the Warden’s office in the lowest floor, where his file was waiting to be signed off. They stripped him off his striped Azkaban uniform, magicking on the clothes he had been wearing on the day of his arrest.

They were fine robes, fitted for a well-built wizard of old money, and looked terribly out-of-place on the haggard, skeletal old man. The warden remembered the figure he had cut, striding into Azkaban with head held high, face tensed and yet glowing with health.

The prisoner was then walked out between the two Aurors, the young official tailing behind. There was a boat to the next island, which had a lone, unmanned register and a Portkey point.

The Portkey took them to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, to a small office where anyone transported from Azkaban had to enter their log before being released.

The old man seemed in no condition to sign, so the Auror marked it for him, before tapping on the gauntlet-shackle with his wand. It clinked open, and was put away.

“Well, Potter. You’re free to go.”

They hadn’t really expected the wizard to understand, and was debating on whether to call someone from St Mungo to take him to the Janus Thickley ward when the wizened old man began ambling out of the office. His legs were unused to movement and he held on to the walls and desks for support. A withered hand reached for the door, pushing it open in frail movements before stepping out.

..........................................

It was the first blast of light he had experienced in decades. The cacophony of the Ministry sounded thunderous in his ears, the smell of wood and polished stone overpowering, the texture and warmth of everything around him strange on his fingertips. Magic sung in the air.

Harry listened to the thrum of people and magic, the soft ebbing of the Ministry’s wards, the familiar whizz of the interdepartmental memos-

This was his department.

He had known it like the back of his hand, reigning over these offices for as many years as he had spent in that-

_(Hellhole)_

Azkaban.

Azkaban. He’d been there long enough to come to terms with the facts of his incarceration. The least he could do was acknowledge it.

Twenty-five years.

The Ministry hadn’t changed one bit.

Walking through the corridors, no one recognised Harry. Of course, he was dressed in flea-bitten fineries that went out of fashion decades ago, and his face was covered in long, matted white hair. The stench of the prison had seeped into his flesh, and no Freshening Charm could remove it.

The man staggered into the first restroom he could find and looked at the mirror.

Merlin, it _had_ been twenty-five years.

He was seventy-four. It showed.

No, he looked ancient- perhaps even older than Dumbledore might ever have looked. Azkaban always left its mark, from the corpse-like pallor, waxy skin and lustreless hair to the wasted, shrunken form. Peeling back the collar of his robes, he could clearly make out the etchings on his neck and chest- his Azkaban details- roll number, cell number, years of imprisonment- marked out as a tally- and the brand on his chest.

Twenty-five years, and the only reason he was alive- was sane- had been his resolute belief in the knowledge that he did not belong there.

Harry Potter was innocent.

More than that, Harry had been imprisoned on the charges of everything he stood against. He’d always done well against adversity, Harry mused, and this had been his greatest test yet. He had been on the threshold of greatness, of change and revolution, with grand ambitions to make the Wizarding world a more wholesome place for everyone, regardless of race, species or blood-status.

He’d nearly succeeded.

And then he had plummeted.

It had to be one of Magical History’s most shameful falls, and yet, the shame was not his- for he was innocent.

Harry regarded himself in the mirror again with green eyes that had not lost their intensity through all these years.

No, this wouldn’t do.

Azkaban had wrecked him, true, but it had not defeated him. It would do no good to stoop and stumble, hiding his face like the guilty.

Harry straightened himself up, standing as erect as his arthritic spine would allow him, and waved his hands, shearing off as much of the matted white hair as he could. He trimmed his beard and moustache into his old goatee, although much of the hair could not be salvaged. In the end, he settled for cropping it short around his head, burnt away the clippings and stepped back for a better look.

It wasn’t how he used to be, but it was presentable.

Another exercise of his long-unused magic was to transfigure a piece of toilet-paper into a cane that he could use to walk properly. It was all he could do for now, dissatisfying as it was, but he would scour the stench off him first thing when he got home.

Thus, Harry Potter walked out of the bathroom, stride much improved, sparing a few nostalgic gazes at the bustling Auror office and pausing for a moment in front of the office of the department head.

‘Connor Wilkes, Head of the DMLE’, it read.

Harry sighed and strode out, giving cursory glances at posters and banners, at people and trying to deduce the general mood of the Ministry.

  
It was clearly a traditionalist Ministry, the Creature-Rights movement was going strong. A poster in the corridor spoke of Elf-rights and Centaur-rights, and Harry smiled to himself, remembering Hermione.

What had become of her? Of Ron? Of everyone else?

Hermione had been his second-in-command through all his campaigns; the primary representative of the Creature-Rights movement they had started. Ron had been Head Auror back then.

Harry stopped in front of an office he didn’t remember- the Muggleborn Registry. There was a pamphlet stand outside, and flipping through it, he realised that they were being forcibly integrated into Wizarding society, removed from their parents’ custody the moment accidental magic was recorded.

It was a new Ministry- whose principles he could not recognise. It had been restructured, the Statute of Secrecy enforced harsher than ever, certain Anti-Muggle campaigns going on, the revoking of several Dark-arts banning laws, and finally, their core ideal that Magic was superiority.

(‘MAGIC IS MIGHT’, proclaimed the granite and gold monument in the atrium.)

The only positive that Harry could find was that _all magic_ was included. He’d chanced upon several amber-eyed, scarred workers scurrying about, a Goblin-run Gringotts office next to the Goblin Liason office (renamed Goblin Affairs, equally staffed by Goblins and Wizards), and a dark, unlit blood-bank near the cafeteria.

The golden lift stopped, letting in a crowd. There were two Aurors accompanying a petite brunette and a dark haired child, along with a few officials and a blond man who could only have been a Malfoy. Their conversation was hushed, but Harry’s ears were used to the terrifying silence of Azkaban, and to him, they could have been broadcasting.

Auror accompaniment for the Minister’s wife, he realised. And the blond _was_ a Malfoy- Scorpius, Draco’s son, it seemed. The last time Harry had seen him, Scorpius had been at Hogwarts and mooning over Rose Weasley.

Again, his thoughts drifted to the Weasleys and Draco. How was the ferret doing?

The Minister’s wife shot Harry a disgusted glance and wrinkled her nose, and the rest of the ensemble gave him a wide berth.

Deeply uncomfortable, Harry didn’t let it show on his face, and stepped out of the lift first. There seemed to be a crowd in the Atrium, waiting for the Minister’s press conference, if the general buzz of conversation was to be believed.

While it would have been interesting to wait there for the Minister’s arrival (from trade negotiations in Spain) Harry had decided that scrubbing the physical traces of Azkaban off his skin was the most important thing on his list, so he headed past the line of fireplaces and into the Apparation point.


	2. The Vagrant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lone misshapen piece in a jigsaw puzzle.

The scent of sea and fresh grass greeted him as he stood outside the wards of his Highland manor. The garden was well-kept, rose hedges overlooking the cliff-side to the sea. Even the waves lashing upon the arched rock formations and rocky, vertical face sounded joyous, bouncing back the colours of a cerulean sky as they rippled and crested. Rows of cherry and willow formed an avenue to the manor, their branches sweeping low enough to graze the top of the fancy barouche the manor used to have. Harry wondered if it had been confiscated, and then wondered about the horses. The wards recognised him, warming him down to his bones, humming in his ears the moment he set foot inside the property.

Harry took his time reaching the manor porch, admiring the silhouette of his old home and how little the place had changed through the years of his imprisonment. The house still recognised him as its master, and he simply pushed open the heavy oaken door, striding into the foyer and calling Goethe, the head elf.

“Master Harry?” The elf croaked wondrously, the years having made a mark on him too.

Harry smiled back at the elf, asking him to prepare a light meal- perhaps congee and some leafy salads for him that he could fill his stomach with to after a long bath. What little gruel Azkaban provided him had been unpalatable and he did not know how his body would respond to the regular three meals a day- he would most likely need a period to adjust back.

He headed up to his bedroom, tossing the robes off and sinking into the warm bath the elves had set up, soaking for a long time before fumbling with the soap and shampoo and washing the grime off his skin.

To his surprise, Goethe hadn’t laid out any robes for him on the bed. Harry poked around in the wardrobe- they were all tailored business robes and crisply starched dress-shirts, which meant that Tom had thrown Harry's clothes out and stacked the wardrobe with his own robes.

Tom.

The one thing he had locked away in the deepest reaches of his mind, under his strongest Occlumentic shields, safe from the reaches of the Dementors. They had fed on many a memory, but Tom was Harry’s most precious of thoughts.

It was another thing that kept him sane.

When he got released, Tom would be waiting- and it seemed Tom _had been waiting._

There was no other explanation for the pristine condition of the estate, for the lived-in state of the rooms, for the absence of Harry’s clothes in the wardrobes. (Technically, it _was_ Tom’s wardrobe, and Harry had been too much of a lazy ass to head back to his rooms to get dressed every morning. Whenever Harry wasn’t around, Tom would have them sent back to Harry’s wardrobe.)

He slipped on a casual robe, inhaling the scent of Tom on the starched material and sat on the bed, slowly letting his memories out of their Occlumentic prison.

The memories burst forth like a dam and swirled around in his head, a torrent of dizziness overcoming him while he staunchly refused to think of the last two decades. The room spoke so strongly of him, the bed smelled like him, the plain, undecorated walls so characteristic of Tom, his beloved husband-

Tom, who hadn’t visited Azkaban once.

No, no, no- No! NO!!!

Harry clutched his head and tried to force himself to think of something else. It had been part of their agreement when they married, that they would keep their professional lives separate- that they wouldn’t announce the marriage to anyone lest it affect their political sway.

So of course, Tom wouldn’t have visited him, a convicted crime lord. Wouldn’t have fought for his release, wouldn’t have believed him if Harry had tried to explain. They were very different creatures, Tom and Harry- which was why they had fit together like yin and yang.

That was alright- Tom was like that.

Harry loved him for who he was. What mattered now was that Tom was still here, and Harry was finally free.

He managed to drag himself up from their bed and ambled out to the dining hall. Goethe (and was that Pan? Blimey, she had grown up!) had set up a modest course of millet porridge, lettuce and bean-sprout salad and two glasses of what looked like nutrition potions.

The elves kept him company, although they were rather quiet. The potions had to be consumed first, and Harry was halfway through his porridge when a girl barged into the dining room.

“Who are you?” She asked, eyeing his ancient visage warily.

“Harry. And you are?”

“That’s none of your concern.” The girl said, tossing her bag at Pan and settling at the other end of the table. “Bit presumptuous, aren’t we?” She snapped at Harry, who was sitting at the head of the table.

Years of practice at Azkaban let him ignore the obnoxious brat and focus on his meal. Pan brought her a plate of fruit sandwiches and a goblet of pumpkin juice, and while the girl was busy with her plate of food, Harry observed her. She had fine Black features and ringlets of heavy, dark hair. There was a certain familiarity to her that Harry couldn’t put his finger on, until a dark-haired child and his mother joined them in the hall.

The Minister’s wife.

“You!” The woman screeched, pulling out her wand. “Who let you in?”

His brain refused to process anything. “I am the Master of this house.” He narrowed his eyes, fixing her at the end of an intent green glare. His eyes had always been reputed to have a hypnotic quality to them, and a brief brush of Legilimency told him all he needed to know.

This was Adelaide Riddle, née Lestrange.

_Tom’s wife._

He snorted bitterly. Tom’s wife. The wizard had become Minister, then.

“How dare you.” Tom’s new wife said, gesturing at Goethe to banish him from her house.

The elf looked helpless between them, but Harry knew whose order held precedence- Harry was the Master of the manor while this Pureblood lap-dog of a woman was merely the Lady of the house. Another cursory sweep of Legilimency revealed that the girl (her mental shields were commendable) and the boy were Tom’s children.

No, Harry would rather not think of how Tom had started a new family in _their_ house after abandoning Harry to the Dementors.

He coldly stood up and walked out of the Manor, asking Goethe to bring him a cloak. The old head-elf brought him his favourite mink cloak and Harry headed out, suddenly feeling the familiarity of his home unbearable. The roses smelled sick and the sea sounded like stones grating on his eardrums.

“Master?” Goethe asked, helpless. It was clear that the elves would rather have their true Lord over Mistress Riddle and her snot-nosed children.

Handsome children, Harry’s brain amended automatically. As beautiful as Tom had been- even dressed in the drab hand-me-downs they had at Wool’s.

Harry sighed. “It’s clear that I’m no longer welcome here.”

Goethe immediately pulled down his cap, prepared to leave along with him, but Harry stopped the old elf.

“Does Tom treat you well?”

“Aye, sir. Goethe is paid a Galleon a week- others are paid a sickle-piece a day.” The Head elf quirked his lips, almost reading Harry’s mind. “Sir needn’t worry about the Lady Lestrange or Master Tom’s offspring- she holds no power to punish us. After all, you are Lord here.”

“Then I ask you to stay.”

Reluctantly, Harry let go of the elf who had been serving him since Dobby’s death, and apparated with a soft pop. His next destination was the Weasley Townhouse at London, where he hoped he could find Ron and Hermione in their retirement.

The townhouse left him sorely disappointed, already occupied by several red-heads he did not know- Weasley children, no doubt, but alas, mere strangers to a long-incarcerated man.

He wandered around Diagon Alley- still the same, yet so different- vivid bursts of colour, people milling about for early Easter shopping, children drooling over the latest Cloudburst and Nova brooms, new perfumeries and cosmetic potions stores, a shaded sidewalk for paler beings and a centaur-run athletic equipment store.

Gringotts was another disappointment- Harry’s assets had been claimed by his husband and transferred into the Riddle vault. Another shard of hurt lodged deep in his heart, another proof of Tom’s abandonment.

Abandonment was not the right word. Tom seemed to have simply given up on Harry. After all, no one survived a quarter century in Azkaban and lived to tell the tale. He had perhaps assumed that Harry would die, or that he’d no longer be sane enough to be worth waiting for.

Harry dared not ask when Tom had claimed his accounts- how long had it taken the man to rebound from Harry’s absence and start a new life. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answer. The girl in the dining room had looked old enough to be a seventh-year at Hogwarts. Quietly, the former prisoner left Gringotts, favouring his cane a little more than he had been when walking out of the Ministry.

His feet traced familiar steps to the Weasleys’ old joke shop, and Harry was glad when he spotted the two older men in beige dragon-hide robes and large, purple polka-dotted bowties. The twins were no longer actively running the shop, leaving it to a long, gangly female Weasley Harry could not recognise. She was likely one of their grandchildren.

In spite of the familiar faces, Harry could not bear the joy in the bright, loud joke shop, and he turned away. Knockturn Alley had not changed at all- except that back in his childhood, it had brought fear while during his time as an Auror, he had always been in pursuit of someone or something. For a feebled, homeless and penniless man, it brought calm.

The shady alley held nothing of interest, and its lurking denizens held no interest for him.

Harry found a corner for himself under a boarded-up shop and sat there, until the sun set and Aurors began patrolling. Knockturn Alley withdrew into itself as tightly as a clam into its shell. Beggars, refugees and prostitutes remained, and they were quickly scattered by the Aurors.

There seemed to be no place for him in London either.

Harry apparated to various places that he could think of- the Burrow (locked), to Neville’s cottage in the Moors (destroyed in a fire), to the place where Woolwich Orphanage once stood. He had even apparated to Malfoy Manor, clearly still in use and well-maintained, but sheer embarrassment made him turn away- besides, Draco would probably be on holiday touring Europe or something.

It was drizzling when he reached the marble tomb of Hogwarts’ most beloved headmaster. The sun had set, leaving the sky in vibrant shades of rosy gold and violet. Weather and time had washed out the etchings on the flawless white marble, and Harry sat near the faded white block, reminiscing the past. Dumbledore was accommodating in death as he had never been in life, and the stone tomb did not mind whether there was one man or two resting under it.

That was good. Perhaps Harry could sit here until he ceased to breathe.

Hunger and cold no longer affected him, and it was all too easy to slip into the state that had kept him sane in Azkaban- complete disconnect between his mind and body, where he felt like a stranger, a third person watching Harry Potter sit on the marble tomb- a living statue under the impartial forces of nature.

This clear mental state kept time for him, where his body could not distinguish between the cycle of day and night and a moment frozen in time, extending to infinity.

Eventually, the skies were brighter and a lone figure walked to the tomb and found him there. Aberforth Dumbledore was stooped with age, his beard trimmed to his chest and hair rolled neatly into a bun. Two old men met at a tomb and sat side-by-side.

“I come here often these days.” Aberforth confessed.

It’s a comfortable place, Harry agreed. He was sorry he hadn’t gotten a chance to visit the late Headmaster before. Aberforth nodded. The old barman hadn’t needed a name to recognise Harry- the ageless green eyes were enough. He had been a regular patron of the Hog’s Head during and after school, all the way until his arrest.

Aberforth persuaded Harry to come to the bar. Gave him a job at the counter and a room to stay. Through the following days, Harry glimpsed so many familiar faces, some of them so achingly dear to him that he slunk into the darkness of the pub whenever they passed by.

Mr and Mrs Ronald Weasley, drinking at a booth in the corner with Professors Longbottom and Scamander and their spouses. A considerably beer-bellied Finnegan joining them on odd days. A Malfoy boy trying to drink Firewhiskey under disguise and getting thrown out. Mrs Ginevra Corner’s commentary on the latest game of Magpies versus Puddlemere United blaring from the wireless.

He needn’t have hidden though- they never recognised him. They were all middle-aged witches and wizards while Harry was ancient.

Aberforth caught him staring at Ron and Hermione. He learnt that his old friends had worked so very hard to get him released. In the end, Hermione had quit the Ministry and taken stance as a rebel Creature-Rights Activist, then tried running for election herself, and Ron had been forced into early retirement due to his associations with the convicted ‘Lord Voldemort’. But their protests hadn’t made a mark- for Minister Riddle’s Pro-Magic government had made so many changes for the benefit of all magical beings that Riddle’s own shady dealings were quickly forgotten.

The bar also had other patrons- people he recognised from Tom’s circle of traditionalist friends. Harry was ashamed to admit that he kept a keen ear out for any news of Tom, hearing the Minister’s voice from the radio simply wasn’t the same thing. It was embarrassing how a septuagenarian like him still pined like a schoolboy for a husband who had forgotten him.

The Minister hadn’t even annulled their marriage- just pretended that Harry never existed. An inconsequential but embarrassing blemish on his clean parchment that he had to cover up. That was what Adelaide Riddle was for, he realised. A pureblood trophy wife who could secure him an heir and elevate his status in public eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Adelaide here is Bellatrix and Rodolphus' daughter, who married Riddle right out of Hogwarts. She's one of those young trophy wives who end up as arm candy to rich seventy-something men. (cougars and old lechers, who knew?)
> 
> Happy ninety something something birthday, Riddle! (It's 31 December for me) _Shrugs_ I didn't post anything on Christmas but I'll be damned if I neglect You-Know-Who's birthday.


	3. The Dark Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vengeance and Retribution

Being a barman was interesting.

Harry wondered why he hadn’t made more contacts in the Leaky or the Hog’s Head- pub frequenters were great information brokers. They had access to the latest gossip and fresh news, long before the papers. Keeping an ear out for hassled looking Ministry officials gave more context to the news being broadcasted on the wireless.

It wasn’t until Harry realised he had heard Rosier talking about an attack on Diagon Alley two days before the actual attack that he noticed something was off. From then on, he paid more attention to their conversation- the parts that weren’t about Tom- and realised that Rosier seemed to be part of an underworld agency that dealt with trafficking illegal goods.

There was another attack then, in Knockturn Alley, and the next thing Rosier talked about was profits from distributing bottled magic drained from Obscurials. Harry left his job early and tailed the man through Knockturn, breaking into the wards of a seedy establishment called the Scarlet Caps.

Much of it was a goblin-run gambling den- Harry had been to a few of those during his stint as Head Auror- but then he found Rosier heading into a magical door. Over the next few days, he kept watch, transforming himself into a vase or a spare bucket by the door, and realised that it was a customised Multidoor that opened to different locations depending on the password.

It had to be a recent invention, for the Aurors who frequently raided Scarlet Caps never gave the door more than a cursory once-over. Over the days, the ex-auror kept tabs on who used which door, tailing them to other locations and marking them off his list.

There were four others who used the same door Rosier did- Dolohov, Mulciber, Fletcher, whom Harry recognised as the weedy-looking brother of Thaddeus Fletcher, the Minister’s Undersecretary, and the establishment owner, Scabior. Often, a woman would also exit the door, but Harry had never seen her go in; which meant there were other openings into that place.

Fletcher was the easiest target- he dealt with petty larceny and was easy to stun as well as impersonate. Once Harry was in, he kept his head low, skulking in the background the way Fletcher was wont to do, nodding respectfully at the others. This man seemed to be at the bottom of the food-chain, dealing them wares and trinkets he had stolen from Wizarding and Muggle homes.

That was Harry’s first glimpse into the underground network of spies and grunt-workers that made up Lord Voldemort’s crime syndicate. He spent his time wisely, knocking out, impersonating and modifying the memories of various low-rung criminals, studying the trade.

Here was everything they had accused Harry of when throwing him into Azkaban- beast trade, slaves, Muggle-experimentation, identity farms...

Knockturn had become cleaner, and the Anti-Muggle sentiments seemed to be much less now that Purebloods could be convinced to buy Muggles as slaves. Impersonating a new worker, Harry got to ask about the new slave-trade. It seemed that the Muggles were stolen from their homes at an early age and groomed to serve wizards, their minds modified with compulsions to cast aside their pride and humanity.

Harry saw more and more things he wished he had never seen during the time he spent in the Morsmordre Syndicate.

And that was when the disappearances started. Morsmordre middlemen started disappearing first, followed by mid-tier workers and supervisors, disrupting their business. Then the first underbosses vanished, and the branch organisers. Theirs was a very structured system, Harry mused.

All the while, the number of unidentifiable, shredded body parts flowing down the London sewers increased, much to the alarm of the Muggle law enforcement.

The old prisoner wondered if he now had more death on his hands than the crime lord himself. When only the uppermost echelons of Voldemort’s underground business remained, Harry decided it was time to attack the Death Eaters, the handful of members who had direct contact with the elusive Dark Lord.

Another week passed, dragging with it another good number of souls into the afterlife. It was a shaken, utterly wrecked Harry who staggered back into Aberforth Dumbledore’s pub, crumbling with sheer grief. The old bartender didn’t prompt him for details, but threw a caring arm around his shoulders and made him sit in a corner table with a mug of warm butterbeer.

Tom was Voldemort.

Tom had known all along that Harry was innocent, and he still chose to go through with it. Tom set him up and got him thrown into prison, just so he could become Minister. In retrospect, it made a lot of sense- why his husband had pretended Harry didn’t exist and moved on with his life; why he hadn’t visited or even written.

In the end, Harry was left wondering if any of it had ever been real, or if Tom had just used him (and his position as Head Auror, then as the head of the DMLE) to ensure that his misdeeds were not found.

He stared at Ron and Hermione throughout the next day. They were his closest friends, Harry trusted them with his life- and yet when Tom asked him to keep their relationship a secret even from them, he had acquiesced.

Had Tom planned to betray him back then? Or had it been a spur-of-the-moment thing?

“You should meet them.” Aberforth said quietly. “They deserve at least that much.”

And so they did. But they deserved the old Harry, not this shell of a man he had become. He had aged rapidly in the past two days than he had the whole month. Aberforth pushed him towards the duo, comfortably settled at their usual table and waiting for Luna and Neville to finish the day’s classes.

“Hi-” Harry found his mouth dry when he reached them. “Can I take your order?”

Hermione looked up. “A Firewhiskey and a butterbeer, please.” She smiled, and her eyed crinkled up warmly at the corners.

“Actually, make that two butterbeers.” Ron cut in, waving through the window at the approaching figures on the road. “I’m trying to cut down the alcohol.”

Harry nodded and headed to the counter to get their drinks. Aberforth shook his head- the older man had gone through his share of grudges and separations and knew just how hard it was to accept the cruel hand of fate.

When Harry handed the couple their drinks, Ron suddenly grabbed his sleeve, staring at him with narrowed eyes. Luna had taken her seat and was observing them keenly.

Ron didn’t need more than a look into his eyes to know.

“Harry...?”

Harry looked down. There was literally nothing he could say to them- he could have been sorry that being involved with him cost them their jobs, but Harry was not sorry- because he felt no guilt. An apology would have been empty.

In the end, they made him have dinner with them, awkward in the way only dinners with an ex-inmate could be. There was little small talk until Luna began to tell him about her job as the Care of Magical Creatures professor and Ron followed with stories of the Weasley clan.

They tried to make him welcomed; but it only highlighted how Harry had stopped belonging with them. Back when he had been young, they- his friends and Tom- had been Harry’s family. It was the only place he had ever belonged to.

Now... Harry only belonged in Azkaban.

The cell would still be there- top-security cells were rarely ever used- and the Dementors would still be there.

“Mate, where are you staying?” Ron asked.

“Here. Aberforth let me stay with him.” Harry turned his head to smile gratefully at the old barkeep, who nodded once and went back to wiping glasses.

“But I thought you had bought an estate in Scotland?” Hermione asked. The place had been under heavy wards, and Tom had never allowed any guests.

“Confiscated.” A white lie, but one that helped him make his mind. Harry took in his old friends as though it was his first and last time seeing them. “I’m glad to see you all. Thank you for everything, for believing in me.”

Hermione grasped his hands tightly. “Of course we believed you, Harry. We _know_ you.”

“Besides,” Ron adds, trying to conceal his frustration with nonchalance, “I found out that it was Riddle’s ploy to get you out of the campaign. It was him all along, Harry. They dismissed me from service when they realised I was digging in places Riddle didn’t want dug.”

“I know.” Harry said quietly.

“We’ve been trying to tell people that Tom Riddle is Voldemort, but he’s sunk his claws everywhere. The elections are a joke, the Wizengamot is his announcement-system and the people- they just eat it up.” Hermione sighed. “Everything’s changed.”

And so it had.

When Harry walked into the Ministry building the next day, it wasn’t answers he wanted.

A bolt of lightning magic eviscerated the hallway and two overpowered Stunners took care of the two guards. He checked for any wards and unfriendly spells before slipping inside. When the large oak doors shut, Harry dropped the disillusionment, flicking dust off his sleeves.

“Harry?” The Minister dropped his quill, eyes wide in disbelief.

The latter pursed his lips grimly. “Yes. I’m surprised you still remember my name. Life has really taken off for you, hasn’t it? You must be a very busy man, Minister.”

Tom stood up and straightened himself. “When did you get released?”

“A month ago.” Harry said, leaning against the door. “You would have known if you’d bothered to visit me once. Even the high-security cells have visitor allowances.”

“You were convicted criminal, Harry. What would the public think if the Minister went to pay regular visits to a crime lord? They’d think me corrupt. They’d say I was everything I hoped to clean the Ministry of.”

Harry spat in bitter irony.

“We agreed we wouldn’t poke our noses in each other’s business. I couldn’t offer you public support without knowing the truth.

“I’m not Voldemort.”

Tom nodded, and began walking closer. “I believe you. But the public doesn’t. We’ll look together for some concrete proof to get your name cleared, but until then-”

“Truth will out, they say.” Harry said, voice clear and devoid of any emotion. “Some consolation. How does it help if the truth comes out after someone has spent decades rotting in Azkaban? After they’re dead or Kissed?”

It was a mental state he had perfected in his years of incarceration- incredible mental clarity where all emotions vanished and only pure logic remained. Turning him into a completely different person. This Harry could take ruthlessly efficient decisions that his counterpart would have blanched at. Dementors could not affect him in that state- Occlumency at its finest.

“Sure. Your Ministry’s solution is to toss a bagful of Galleons and consider it as no harm done.”

A cutting spell flew at the Minister’s throat. Tom dodged it, throwing back a spell of his own.

“I said I didn’t know!” Tom said forcefully, casting Incarcerous, which Harry ducked to avoid. “What did you expect me to do if you chose to run a crime syndicate? And now what, you storm into my office and try to curse me for not backing you up?”

Harry shot a series of smoke-and-explosion spells at the Minister, successfully distracting him to cast a timed sticking charm on his shoes. He laughed mirthlessly. “Ron believed in me. So did Hermione, and you’ve known me far longer than they have.”

“I’m not like them and I’ll never be.” Tom said, levelling his wand at Harry and not noticing the sticking charm. He advanced languidly, sending a Patronus to the Auror Office. “I have _responsibilities,_ Harry, not just to you, but to the whole of Britain.”

Responsibilities, heh.

Harry’s will resolved further with each lie that Tom spouted. There was no need for answers now; not when Tom was lying so blatantly to his face. He had always been a liar and a cheat, from their days at Wools’ to the when he had coerced Gavin Parkinson into naming him the representative of the traditionalist faction for the Wizengamot elections.

Tom began throwing back spells in earnest; all faux-decorum of the Minister’s seat gone. “Is that what this is, Harry? Did you break into the Ministry and attack me in my office because I married Adelaide?”

A burst of blue singed Harry’s shoulder while a Reductor blew the desk behind him to bits. There was no point extending this confrontation, so Harry activated the sticking charm. Tom stumbled, his next spell missing wildly and his shield crumbling under Harry’s Reductor. The Incarcerous hit him, followed by the Disarming Charm, and Harry wasted no time in putting up an Anti-Magic ward around the Minister.

When his wandless Stunner failed, Tom sighed and slumped. “What do you want, Harry?”

“I want you dead.”

Tom started in disbelief, about to accuse him of ungratefulness and pettiness when Harry silenced him. The yew wand was at the Minister’s eye-level, ready to fire. Ollivander had sold them brother-wands which worked just as perfectly in the hands of each other; so Tom knew the yew wand was not going to misfire if Harry chose to kill him.

“Your Death Eaters sang like birds.” Harry said. He could see Tom weighing his words.

“You would choose to believe them over me?”

“Didn’t you?”

There was nothing real in the hurt mask Tom presented. Harry perhaps might have fell for it once, or been disgusted at least; but numbness and detachment had taken over. Tom could have burnt him with Fiendfyre, and Harry still wouldn’t have felt a thing.

Voldemort was at his mercy now- Harry could just cast the spell and end him just like that- but Harry had seen and learnt more about Wizarding society in his time spying on Morsmordre than he had from working in the Ministry. Voldemort was a plague- one that used Muggles for the benefit of Wizards, but Minister Riddle was not.

Riddle worked for all Magic, to unify all magical races, and while his regime encouraged Anti-Muggle sentiments, it also exercised caution that the Muggles could be just as devastatingly destructive.

Eight billion Muggles could take care of themselves. But the Wizarding World did need a champion.

Once upon a time, Harry could have been that champion. But not anymore.

He dropped the wand and turned away, heading to the door.

“I knew you wouldn’t kill me.” Tom smiled in relief, undoing the spells on him now that the ward had been deactivated. “I do know you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t salt the wound.”

“I didn’t know what Rosier and Dolohov did- not until you were arrested. I took advantage of the opportunity, yes, but I would never have made the choice to frame you.”

Tom was a creature of logic, and Harry could not argue against the fact that it had been a very characteristic action for Tom to latch onto success no matter what form it came in. Tom’s fingers found his and began thumbing circles over the knuckles. It was something he used to do when Harry was mad.

But Harry was not mad- he was just... numb.

Tom frowned at the lack of a response- he had expected to get his jaw decked or his nose broken- He opened his mouth, but was cut off when Aurors burst through the oaken doors and began to surround Harry.

They were walking the ‘ex-Dark Lord’ out when Harry suddenly turned, met Tom’s eyes with a steely green gaze and yelled, “Fuck you, Tom!”

The Minister didn’t take his gaze off the door until long after Harry had been taken away, fists clenched and mouth dry. The price of ambition was always steep.

When Harry looked up through the bars of his holding cell in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Tom Riddle was standing there, bespoke suit and purple Wizengamot robes and all. He had dismissed the Auror entourage that would normally be present whenever the Minister for Magic visited the temporary holding cells of the DMLE, as well as the cell guards.

“Harry.”

The withered man stared up simply.

“I hadn’t known you would survive Azkaban.” Tom said apologetically. “Twenty five years... No one’s ever made it that far.”

“I’m apparently the Dark Lord, aren’t I? Why is it surprising?” Harry laughed hollowly. “Have you come to enjoy the morning show?” Sentencing prisoners was the Wizengamot’s job, and the Minister had no formal authority there.

Tom set a paper bag on the cot. They were robes- new robes in the latest cut, tailored to Harry’s shrunken form by the Minister’s personal tailor. Harry sneered at the display.

“I’m a relic, Tom. An artefact that’s just about to be disposed of. I would rather dress appropriately.”

From the cover then came Harry’s favourite set of robes- the navy-blue robes with burgundy and gold trimmings. The style had gone out of fashion decades ago, but it seemed Goethe had resized it for him. Tom sat down on the other end of the cot and watched Harry dress.

It was a scene so unbearably familiar in its domesticity. Harry closed his eyes and pretended that he was going to the next Wizengamot hearing he was going to testify for, and that Justice Riddle was lounging on the bed, clad in nothing but hickeys and raking his eyes over the Head Auror’s toned profile, when he too ought to have been dressing in haste. But then, Tom always did put himself together within minutes.

“It’s just a farce of a trial.” Tom said evenly. “The Wizengamot’s decision is made.”

“What will it be, the Kiss or the Veil?”

“Kiss.”

There was a muted discomfort in the cell. Then Tom leapt to his feet and wrapped his arms around Harry, and kissed him.

“I love you.” He said urgently, slotting his mouth against Harry’s- a kiss that was as frenzied and desperate as the first time they’d kissed in the orphanage.

They had just been kids then- roommates who had developed a grudging respect for each other. Until Harry refused four adoptions because he didn’t want Tom to get lonely- no one else would room with the red-eyed freak- and Tom dropped a heavy bookshelf on the old caretaker who wanted to rape Harry. Tom had kissed Harry then, driven by instinct and adrenaline, and they’d disguised the murder as a drunken accident. Mrs Weston had been known for her love for liquor and hard narcotics.

Nothing could have separated him and Harry back then- not rival Houses, not different pursuits, not different inclinations to magic. It was how their arrangement had begun- Harry knew he dabbled in Dark Arts, so when he became an Auror, he promised to keep their private and professional lives separate. In return, Tom promised to not bring work home, or practice Dark magic around Harry and his friends. They had been great together- could have ruled the world.

Harry had changed over the years; and so had Tom, but he marvelled at how perfectly they still fit together. Tom still loved him- as reluctantly and fiercely and jealously in his age as he had in his youth.

The Minister cupped Harry’s cheek, drawing back for a breath. The gaunt man sagged in the embrace for a while before reaching back, and they were kissing again. It was wet and messy, Harry’s teeth grazing Tom’s thin lips as their tongues met. Their noses bumped, and he noticed how his husband’s nose was now crooked and the whites of his left eye tinged with old clots- where the Azkaban guards must have hit him and left it to heal by itself. Scars marred the waxy, shrivelled skin, fingers stood out in grotesque angles and Harry’s frame, once so firm and bigger than Tom’s, felt as fragile as china in his arms.

Tom covered Harry’s neck and cheek with fond little kisses, lacing their fingers together.

“I’m the starved man here.” Harry pointed out, although he was not protesting at the sudden shower of affection.

“I have twenty five years to make up for, haven’t I?” Tom huffed against his lips. “And a lifetime’s worth to steal in advance while I still have you here.” He murmured the last part, loathing the idea that it would be a Dementor who took Harry’s last kiss.

“The cell’s unlocked.” Tom whispered, breath teasing the shell of Harry’s ear lovingly. “I’m unarmed.” He fumbled in his robes before sliding a Galleon into Harry’s palm. “This will take you to our old vacation spot in Prague. It can cut through any wards.”

Harry turned the coin over in his fingers, sensing the enchantments. “An illegal Portkey? How original.”

“Private.” Tom sighed into his hair. “Untraceable. I’ve sent Pan over to take care of all your needs.” He let go and stepped back expectantly.

A squeeze had the magic dissipating off the Galleon. Harry shook his head, handing the coin back.

The Minister grabbed his hands tightly. “Why?”

Harry shrugged. “There’s no place for me in this world anymore, Tom. You saw to that. Besides,” He added casually, “Azkaban at least offers me a cell with my number. A spot of earth on the island where I can rest. What more does a man need?”

Before Tom could answer, Harry had ushered him out of the cell.

“You’d best be off. Isn’t the trial supposed to start at half-past eight?”

Tom tore his gaze off Harry’s brilliant green eyes- shining with the mockery of the warmth and cheer that had once filled them- and looked at his pocketwatch. It was nearly time, and as if on cue, an Auror poked his head into the cell to remind the Minister.

............................

‘Lord Voldemort’ was sentenced to the Veil.

Tom sat in the front row and watched his husband being walked to the ancient-looking archway. He was in chains, dressed in the old suit Goethe had stuffed into Tom’s bag without him noticing.

It had taken but a few whispers in Wilkes’ ears to get the sentence changed from the Dementor’s Kiss to the Veil. It was the way Harry would have preferred to go- no remains, no claims. No grave for Tom to visit, and to eventually be buried beside.

He was spry and pleasant as he crossed the hall, tipping his hat and nodding politely to old acquaintances as though it was a retirement party than an execution. Nothing more than the professional glance at Tom as he passed him- and never turning back. He parted the veil with a wasted hand and stepped through, and that was it.

Tom kept his eyes trained on the veil, half-expecting Harry to pop out from the other side with a lopsided grin and wink at him. When Chief Warlock Connells banged her gavel and declared the end of the execution, Tom collected himself and headed out for the official press conference.

................................

“I would like to clear the fog regarding the recent events at the Ministry.” Minister Riddle announced. The gathered witches and wizards perked up, and gasped when the Minister revealed that yes, there had been an attempt on his life a week ago. “The attempt was indeed by my old rival and convicted criminal, Harry Potter. He had been released a month ago, after having served his full sentence in Azkaban over the allegation of being the crime lord, Voldemort.”

The crowd nodded and took notes. This was hot news after all. No one had known that Lord Voldemort had been released from prison. The morning’s trial had been a shock in the papers, and people had been wondering why the Ministry never reported an Azkaban break-out.

Riddle cleared his throat and crumpled his speech notes in his fist.

“During the assassination attempt, things came to light, which I regret to announce. It is a mark of shame on our Ministry and the Wizengamot that we allowed an innocent man to spend twenty-five years in Azkaban.” He paused, taking in the sounds of confusion amongst the masses. “Harry Potter was wrongly convicted. He is not Lord Voldemort.”

More gasps followed.

“It is our incompetence and failure to apprehend the real criminal that resulted in Mr Potter being framed and imprisoned. It is also due to that very reason that he attacked me in my office: it was the desperate attempt of a wronged man to take revenge on the institution that convicted him.

That being said, it does not excuse Mr Potter’s actions. Two Aurors were fatally wounded during the incident, as well as several Ministry officials and aides. He has also confessed to the death of several of the recent missing people. Murder will not be condoned, and he has been executed at quarter past ten this morning.”

Minister Riddle ended his speech and let the crowd ask questions. There was only one loose end to tie up- Why then, had Voldemort stopped his underground operations when Potter had gotten arrested?

The answer was simple; Voldemort hadn’t. Organised crime was better hidden, but still rampant. The real Dark Lord must have realised what a convenient set up Potter had been, and changed his underworld name. Aurors were working hard on unearthing the underworld crime network, and the Ministry promised its subjects better- and fairer- governance.

Adelaide was waiting in his office. Tom ignored her, as he was wont to do when working. The woman was a Lestrange, but she was also stupid and obnoxious. As usual, Tom poured her a cup from his teapot- it was more fertility potions and sleeping draughts than tea, and the witch smiled coyly before sipping.

Tom watched expressionlessly. He had yet to secure an heir, one that favoured his genetics above hers. When Malfoy came in to make his report on restoring the network, Madam Riddle was incapacitated like a log of wood. Tom cast a privacy ward and nodded for them to begin.

Life goes on.

***

* * *

The End


End file.
